How to Mend a Broken Heart in 1,631 Miles

“If you don’t feel free and you don’t feel like you can be yourself — then what’s the point of a thru-hike?”

My friend Necktie asked me as I sat on the side of the road in Mammoth Lakes and sobbed. I still loved Lovechild — but something had to change.

 

A week later, I made it through the sierras but it felt like a whole part of me had been sloughed off in their sharp gray peaks. Because in a way — it has. I look behind me as I walk along trail and now there’s nothing. There used to be a familiar smile, a pair of tortishell rimmed glasses and curly locks of light brown hair. There used to be the person I walked 2,500 miles with. There used to be Lovechild — my partner, my best friend, my love. Now there is only the winding trail and the outline of my own footprints. I’m alone again. How did this happen?

Too Many Mosquitos

The sierras were one of the most beautiful places I’d backpacked. They were also the most buggy. Our relationship had become a lot like the sierras. Our connection was beautiful like the purple lupines that draped over the trail or the teal alpine lakes that reflected the snowy mountains. But there were bugs: my constant doubts. I wasn’t sure if I was fully myself in the relationship. I wasn’t sure if we could withstand stressful situations together. I wasn’t sure if I was even straight.

There always seemed to be something missing for me in our relationship. It was about the third time in a heterosexual relationship I realized I had mistaken platonic feelings for romantic.

I’m in the process of accepting that I’m just simply gay. It felt awful and enlightening at the same time — I couldn’t be with him, even though he was one of my favorite people I’ve ever known — but now I could finally fully be myself.

Every day, these doubts would sting me. They would buzz in my ears and make my waking world impossible to be comfortable in. They made our incredible bond something I wasn’t sure I could maintain amidst the constant buzz. I didn’t think he deserved to be with a partner who was unsure — so I told him everything.

We wanted what’s best for each other, which we could only achieve through seperating. My heart ached for us to stay together — but in the end, there was just too many mosquitos. Trail would be something I had to face on my own. It was time I started to embrace myself and live the way I wanted to.

Why Is Whitney A Thing

In the days before this, we summited the tallest mountain in the lower 48 together. Golden bitterbrush blooms peered from between fallen logs. Alpine lakes the color of listerine pooled at the base of the mountain’s rocky feet. Massive jagged peaks stabbed upwards into the azure sky. Snowmelt waterfalls cascaded to the valley floor. The beauty could only distract me so much — by the time we were almost to the top, I started to wheeze. The air was growing incredibly thin. I stumbled with every other step — every lurch forward was an internal battle between continuing and turning around.

We reached a turning point on the trail. A sign loomed up ahead — 1.9 miles to the top. 1.9 miles?! I couldn’t do it!!! I started to hyperventilate. It was one of the first times I realized that I was doing things on this trail just because Lovechild wanted to. I thought I had wanted to do Whitney — but if I was on my own I would’ve just went down. It didn’t matter to me as much. I’m grateful for Lovechild’s steady and constant encouragement, but I started to wonder what I would be doing differently if I was alone. My body didn’t like being at that altitude and neither did I. I would rather have just sat by the lake for a while and stared at the mountains. I started to get the feeling it was time to make a change.

When It Rains, It Hails

Before Kiersarge pass, ominous dark clouds started to rumble by. I sat on a log, contemplating our next move. The mosquitos were as bad as they always were — buzzing around my face, stinging my cheeks and the backs of my knees. We needed to get over the pass to meet up with Lovechild’s dad, but it seemed like the thunderclouds had other ideas.

We hastily set up our tarp as the rain started to intensify — and thirty seconds after that it became aggressive hail. Our tarp shook under the torrent. I put my head on Lovechild’s chest and watched the rain pummel the mud just past our feet. It was peaceful in a strange violent way. The wind whipped the trees around us, but we laughed in our quiet refuge.

Until one of the trekking poles collapsed. The tarp fell wetly on top of us. In the same moment, all the water that had pooled on the hill above our tarp rushed onto the sheet of tyvek below us. A slew of curses erupted out of our mouths. Mother Nature had interrupted our brief moment of respite.

Immediately, I scrambled to hold up the pole while Lovechild violently dug trenches around our tarp with the ice axe. Thankfully, the rain started to channel into them and away from our tyvek. We sat for a few moments underneath our tarp, regaining our breath. And then the rain stopped. We laughed again. It was as if the mountains just quickly wanted to say “f*ck you,” and then continue on. It was nice to be reminded of how small we were against the elements every once and a while.

The San Juan Nightmare

I had heard about this river ford for days before we had to go through it. Rangers cautioned that three people had been helicoptered out because they tried to ford. There was talk of people being swept downstream and shattering their ribs on the rocks. I had visions of worse fates for myself with my shoulder still recovering from a fracture since before I started hiking. Swimming was still difficult for me. However, the other options were a sketchy rock scramble up a mountain side that was nearly vertical and involved a lot of bushwhacking (which would also be difficult with my shoulder) — or a thirty mile detour. I decided I wanted to see the river before I committed to the other options.


And then we saw the river. There was an empty space where the two sides of the bridge used to connect — filled only by a rushing current of rapids underneath them. There was a popular point where hikers had crossed about .4 miles downstream. It seemed alright — but there appeared to be a deeper section towards the other side of the river. If we were swept downstream and couldn’t catch ourselves in the shallow section, we would be swept downstream into some violent rapids. Still, it seemed shallow enough in front of us to be able to cross.

Lovechild went first. He crossed without too much of a dilemma. His trekking poles and legs shook under the current, but it never went past the hem of his mid thigh shorts. I accidentally picked a rougher spot to cross. I I clipped my pack and followed Lovechild’s path for the first half, but went straight across instead of picking the more shallow part to wade through. From my original impression, it didn’t seem to be that deep. I was wrong.


The water started to come past my knees, then quickly swelled up past my waist. Then it was up to my bellybutton. I could feel my entire body trembling. I stared down, trying to find my feet. Bubbles from the current in front of me were swelling up and obscuring the riverbed. If I made one misstep — I was falling in, pack and all. “I am going to die,” I thought, feeling my mind start to dissolve into a panic. “No, f*ck that, I’m not dying in this river,” was the immediate next thought.

I took some deep breaths to try and get my mind under control. My footsteps were steady and my legs felt strong. I trusted them to carry me through. I threw myself against the current and wrenched my body through to the other side. I stood on the rocky shoreline, shivering and panting. I had done it. Not my best river crossing — but more importantly, not my last. I had developed a new respect for rivers and a greater faith in the strength of my legs.

Bugs Suck!

As I said earlier, the bugs in the Sierra have been insane. Almost as insane as the bugs on the AT in the New York section. Lovechild and I would cowboy camp at night because our tarp set up was still faulty with our bug net. The bug net we had didn’t quite fit with our tarp. We had the brilliant idea of Velcroing it to the inside of our tarp. This seemed like a fantastic idea except every time one of us would roll over in our sleep we’d rip the side of the bug net off the other person. And then they’d get eaten alive as they tried to sleep.

So we just started cowboy camping with the bug net draped over us because we were too tired to figure out anything else. The brim of Lovechild’s had was exceptionally short and so sometimes the bug net would rest on his nose. I’d look over sometimes to see him wide eyed, blowing frantically at the bugs that continuously landed on the tip of his nose. I would swipe them away when they weren’t biting me too.

Finally we got a two person bug bivy together — but of course it arrived just as we came to the conclusion that it was best to go out separate ways. It seems the trail never fails to have a sense of humor amidst it all.

Rolling with the Flow

I met up with one of my closest friends from the AT — No Name. I hiked 400 miles with her and she became one of the most positive and supportive people in my life. Lovechild, No Name and I all visited Yosemite on our zero day.

We stood in front of Nevada falls, admiring the way the water hurdled down the cliffs in the golden sunlight. I had never seen water move with that much force before.

“There are a lot of lessons we can learn from water. Especially from waterfalls. To embrace change. To stay fluid in life…” No Name trailed off as she looked at the waterfall.

I realized she was right. At that moment in my life, the days before Lovechild and I separated, it felt as though I was a tiny water droplet quickly being dragged towards a huge cliff. I had no idea what was on the other side. It seemed terrifying. It was a blind leap into oblivion — into the open air of the unknown.


Leaving Lovechild and entering into this hike on my own was one of the scariest things I’ve ever done while hiking. The last time I hiked alone was my first 700 miles on the AT. And I wasn’t hiking through a heartbreak that time. I could feel the current tugging me downstream, closer to the moment of truth. In the coming months, I will try to remember No Name’s words. To embrace change and remain fluid: the trail will never be the same without Lovechild, but that does not mean it will be bad. Just different. As I flow off of the cliff into the open, into the independent experience of trail — I like to think of myself as disintegrating into the air and reforming as a newer, more whole version of myself at the bottom. Love had to break my heart wide open to allow for friends to fill it back up again.

 

I don’t regret a single moment of my relationship with Lovechild. I’d do it all again. Even the heart break at the end. You could never appreciate the love of friends and strangers as much without knowing heartbreak. It’s a part of what makes us human.

You can’t make a waterfall with one droplet of water. I’m not the only person experiencing loss and hardship. There are plenty of us, every day, being dragged towards what seems to us to be the precipice of everything we know, a great gaping unknown — the end of the world as we know it. But just downstream, at the bottom of every waterfall, there is a pool. A pool of friends that love and support us through it all. In our most broken and dissolved state, we all are falling towards a quick realization that none of us are alone. There are hundreds of friends we haven’t met yet, and at least ten old friends that wished you talked to them more.

So, if you see Lovechild, give him a hug. If you see me, I probably need one too. In the meantime, I’ll just be falling and flying and dissolving into things I’ve never known before — with a great amount of faith in the hikers waiting for me just downstream.

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Comments 5

  • Dario : Jul 13th

    I admire all these hikers. They are really alive!!!!!!!

    Reply
  • thetentman : Jul 13th

    A heartfelt and inspiring post.

    Thank you.

    I am rooting for you. Go Girl!

    Cheers.

    Reply
  • John Tercius Rutkowski : Jul 13th

    A love breakup is hard, be it on the trail or not.

    I had one from 43+ years ago is still hard, even though I found a fantastic partner with whom we had a child. So you choose to love every day, and you can’t unlove someone. Love is given, never taken.

    This does cause pain to my spouse, but it is hard to resolve.

    Reply
  • Jass : Jul 14th

    had a good tea time read. keep writing.

    Reply
  • No Name : Jul 15th

    “You know what the real water of life is?….Jesus.” ~ that thirsty guy coming down from half dome.

    Reply

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